Secrets of Moth (The Moth Saga, Book 3) (15 page)

"Wait, wait!" He
reached across his back for his rope and grapple. "I knew this
would come in handy. Let me—"

"No grapple!" Bailey
shouted. "Put that down and push me."

Grimacing, Torin shoved Bailey
up the wall of boulders and brush. Once on top, she reached down,
grabbed his wrist, and helped him climb. They emerged onto a shelf of
stone, the highest point of the escarpment. Cliffs dropped down
beneath their feet, and more cliffs rose in the west, framing a
verdant valley. The canopy rustled below them, too thick to see
through, breaking only for a rocky stream. Nearby, a waterfall
crashed down the escarpment into the valley, spraying mist.

Far in the west, past mist and
green haze, treed hills rose into blue clouds. Here the escarpment
finally seemed to end, leading to highlands that rolled into the
horizon. Through sheets of distant rain, Torin could make out faded
structures of gray and green—ancient towers melted by years of water
and wind. When sunbeams broke through the clouds, falling upon the
ruins, they blazed against a piece of metal on a tower's crest like a
jewel in a crown of stone.

"The temple of Til Natay."
He pointed. "We're almost there. It can't be more than ten miles
away."

She looked around, chest rising
and falling, sweat dripping down her brow. "Where's Ishel? I
can't see her." Her hand trembled around her hilt. "It's
her we must find."

Torin looked around. The
rainforest stretched for many miles in each direction. "She's
gone. We won't find her in this forest. We might meet her again
before the end, but for now we must bandage our wounds. I don't want
to bleed to death before we complete our quest."

Bailey began to object,
insisting that they pursued Ishel at full speed, but when Torin
showed her the wound on his shoulder, she winced and nodded. It was a
red, ugly thing, already full of mud and leaves.

They trudged down into the
valley, reached the rocky stream, and approached the waterfall. The
crashing torrent roared and mist enveloped them, dampening their
clothes and hair.

"Take off your shirt,"
Bailey commanded. "I have a needle and thread and I'm going to
wash you, then stitch you up good."

"I don't need stitches."

She
glowered. "You need stitches on your wound
and
your mouth. Shirt—off!"

He winced as he doffed his cloak
and peeled off his shirt. The mist stung him like tiny arrows. "Now
you, Bailey. You're wounded too. Leggings—off."

She raised her eyebrow. "Me?
It's just a flesh wound."

He glowered. "Don't be
funny. We're taking care of you too."

After placing down her pack and
weapons, she kicked off her boots, wriggled out of her torn leggings,
and pulled her tunic over her head. She stood before him in her
underclothes. A wound ran along her hip, dripping blood down her
thigh. They stepped into the pool, stood in the waterfall's mist, and
splashed water into their wounds.

"Ow!" Torin flinched
when Bailey began to stitch the cut on his shoulder. "Merciful
Idar, be gentle."

"Be tough! I thought you're
a warrior." She broke a branch off an overhanging mangrove and
handed it to him. "Bite down on this if you must." She
thrust the needle in again.

He stitched her wound next. She
bit down on a branch too, and she growled and turned red, but she did
not scream. When he was done, he splashed water onto the stitching,
clearing off the last blood.

"There, only a scratch."
He patted her hip. "All better. You're lucky I was there to save
you."

Her eyes flashed, and she
grabbed his arms painfully. "You saved me? It was my sword that
cut Ishel! I'm the one who dueled her! You just danced around and
tossed a stick at her."

He tried to pry her hands loose,
but she held him tightly. "It was an arrow, and without it you'd
probably be dead. I think we proved in battle that I'm the greater
warrior."

Her face reddened and she looked
ready to scream, but then her eyes became sly. "You're just
goading me now."

He smiled. "It's so easy."

Bailey lowered her head, and a
small smile curled her lips. "I know it is. I must be a right
nightmare to travel with." She touched his damp hair, leaned
forward, and kissed his cheek. "You played a small part in the
battle, I'll admit it, and I'm glad you were there. Thank you."

She kept caressing his hair, and
her body—clad in only her wet underclothes—pressed against him. She
kissed his cheek again, then his ear, and then the corner of his
mouth.

"Bailey, what—?" he
began.

"Hush," she whispered,
lips against his ear. She placed both hands on his cheeks. "Do
you remember how we kissed back in the crater in the night? I've been
thinking about that kiss since then. And I want to do it again."

He closed his eyes as they
kissed, and her lips were warm, her tongue seeking his, her body
pressing against him. He wrapped his arms around her, surrendering to
her warmth, but then pulled back.

"Bailey, we can't do this."
He looked away, still holding her. The pool swirled and the waterfall
crashed down behind them. "I can't."

She pulled his face back toward
her. "Because of Koyee?"

He nodded.

Bailey cupped his cheek in her
hand and gazed at him earnestly. "Are you married to her?"

"No."

"Betrothed?"

"No."

"Did you sleep with her?"

Her comment surprised him. "I
. . ."

"Tell me." Anger
filled her eyes. "Tell me the truth."

He nodded. "Yes."

Tears dampened her eyes but she
blinked them away. "Forget about her, Torin. She's wise and
strong, and she's exotic and tempting to you. But I'm from your
village. I've been your best friend since we were babies. I'm the one
for you." She kissed his lips again. "Forget about Koyee
and love me instead."

For a long moment, he stood with
her under the waterfall, kissing her, holding her, and he thought
about all their years together: playing in the fields as children,
traveling into the night, fighting together upon ships, atop city
walls, and here in the rainforest. All his life, she had been there
by his side, his Bailey, his closest friend—Bailey of angry but
loving eyes, of mocking lips, of courage and kindness, of strength
and frailty.

"I love you, Bailey,"
he said, holding her close to him. "But I'm confused. This still
feels wrong."

She reached into the water and
began to unlace his breeches. "Let me make you feel right."

For a moment, he let her fingers
work, but when he closed his eyes this time, he saw another woman. He
saw Koyee. He saw a gentle woman of starlight and shadow, a woman of
strong eyes, of a kind heart, a woman he had fought for, then fought
with, a woman with whom he'd traveled through darkness into hope. In
his mind, he saw Koyee's lavender eyes gazing at him with love . . .
then the pain of betrayal.

He turned away.

"I can't, Bailey. I'm
sorry. You are the closest person to me in the world. I love nobody
more than you. You are my oldest, dearest friend, but I can't."

He saw the hurt in her eyes, a
pain deeper and greater than her wound. "Because of Koyee."

He nodded. "I'm sorry.
I'm—"

Her eyes flashed and he winced,
expecting her to slap him, to knock him down, to scream and hurt him.
But instead, tears filled Bailey's eyes, and she only pulled herself
free from his embrace. She waded away, stepped out of the water, and
began to dress.

"Bailey," he said
softly, climbing out of the pool beside her. "Can we—"

"We keep moving." She
wriggled into her leggings, pulled her tunic over her head, and
clasped her sword to her belt. "We have to save the world for
Koyee. So let's keep going."

They walked through the forest
in awkward, painful silence.

 
 
CHAPTER FOURTEEN:
INTO SHADOW

The dunes rolled golden into the
distance. The azure sky spread above, embracing the simmering sun.
The horizons undulated with heat and distant mountains rose, yellow
and white, sentinels of stone. The land was a painting of ancient
secrets, of a glory greater than found in poem or song, temple or
palace, or all other crafts of men. The camels traveled across the
sand, their saddlebags tasseled, their riders cloaked in white—tiny
figures in an endless landscape of majesty, magic, and—

"Eww, it's licking me!"
Linee said, whining as the camel twisted its head around to sniff her
foot. "Face forward, you stinky animal. Forward! I hate this
stupid desert."

Sitting on his own camel, Cam
groaned. "Linee, please! I was trying to enjoy the beautiful
landscape, and you had to ruin my mood."

She grimaced as the camel licked
her toes. It took several shakes of her foot before the animal turned
its head forward again and kept walking across the dunes. Cam sighed
as he rode beside her, bouncing atop his own camel's hump. Ahead of
them, upon his own dromedary, rode their guide—a scrawny boy lazily
flicking a crop.

"How far are we from the
ziggurat?" Linee called out to the child.

Cam scowled. "I told you,
don't speak Ardish to anyone. We're still undercover."

The
boy looked over his shoulder at them. His grin spread across his
sun-bronzed face. "Ferisi Ziggurat!" He pointed ahead and
spoke in his tongue; Cam only understood the word
serana
—close.

"He says it's nearby,"
Cam explained.

Linee pouted and crossed her
arms. "He said that hours ago." The wind gusted, full of
sand, and raised her tasseled shawl from her shoulders to slap
against her face. She tugged it down and whimpered.

Cam held his canteen over his
mouth. Only a few drops spilled out, blessed relief against his dry
tongue. His lips were just as dry and cracked, and he licked them. He
wore a white cloak he'd bought back in Kahtef, and it offered some
protection from the sand and sun, but after a turn in the open
desert, he missed the oasis city like a drowning man misses land.

Far north in Arden, his
homeland, it would be winter now. Snow would be glittering upon the
fields and roofs. If not for this war, he would be sitting in The
Shadowed Firkin by a roaring fireplace, nursing a mug of ale,
listening to Hem sing, speaking to Torin of old tales, and teasing
Bailey just to see her get angry. Another gust of wind blew sand into
his eyes, and Cam sighed and lowered his head, blinking the grains
away.

But
Hem is dead now,
he thought.
And
Ferius rules in Arden. And maybe Torin and Bailey are gone too. That
home is forever gone.

"Camlin, there's drool on
my shoe!" Linee said, wrinkling her nose and kicking, spraying
camel cud into the sand.

Cam blinked and looked at her,
the memories of home fading in the sunlight. She looked at him, face
twisted in misery, but then she grinned, her teeth very white in her
golden face, and laughed. The sun gleamed upon her bracelet and
necklace of bronze and topaz; she had bought the jewels back in the
city, which now lay miles behind. And now a new memory filled Cam—a
memory of last turn, making love to Linee under the blankets in a
stifling tavern room, their naked bodies slick with sweat, moving
together, their lips locked in a kiss. As she smiled at him now from
her camel, she was beautiful—her golden hair streaming, her smile
bright, her green eyes full of love for him.

Maybe
she is my new strength,
Cam thought.
If
my old home is gone, maybe she is the new light in my life.

He
was about to speak these thoughts when their guide stood upon his
saddle, pointed ahead, and called out, "Ziggurat! Ziggurat.
Look.
"

Cam turned his head northward.
Their three camels crested a dune, the wind died, and he saw it there
in a sandy valley.

"The Ziggurat of Ferisi,"
Cam whispered.

Based on the painting back in
the tavern, he had imagined a building the size of a manor, maybe
even a small palace. But here loomed a structure to rival the
greatest pagodas he'd seen in Eloria—it was a monument that could
house a nation. It still lay several miles away, a triangular edifice
with staircases rising along its facades. The top ended with a
plateau, and upon it rose a square structure like a barracks, and a
dark gateway loomed upon its southern wall.

"That was where the
clockwork man stood," Cam said. "In the painting. He stood
in that doorway at the top of the stairs."

From this distance, he could see
no mechanical figure, no glint of metal—only the tan bricks,
crumbling and ancient. They rode their camels down the dune and into
the valley, leaving a trail of footprints, heading toward the
monument.

As they rode, Cam pulled out a
dusty leather book from his pouch. After seeing the painting back in
the tavern, he had scoured the city's shops for information, finally
finding this book in a dusty hovel that sold scrolls, codices,
crystals, amulets, and other items of power. Books, the old
shopkeeper had claimed, held the most power of all, more than potions
and hexes, for they held knowledge.

Cam dusted off the book and
squinted down at the small letters. Half the pages were full of
Eseerian hieroglyphs, which Cam couldn't read; the runes were written
from right to left, shaped as animals and plants. The book's other
half, however, was written in High Riyonan, an ancient language that
was the root of Ardish, Verilish, Magerian, and the other tongues
north of the Sern River—the ancient realm of Riyona, a northern
empire that had fallen a thousand years ago. Cam could read a little
Riyonan—rare for a shepherd's boy, but he'd always loved the books
of adventure found in Bailey's house. Riyonan was older than Ardish,
and many of the words were different, but the alphabet was the same,
and Cam could understand at least half of these words.